Awry and Askew
by Tsona
Summary: FINISHED! Snape is asked to oversee a meeting of Addicted Wizards Anonymous, in which all of our favorite characters are participating.  Just a bit of crazy, Monty Python type hilarity my friends and I made up for a skit once.  Please be warned.


_A/N: This bit of hilarity, my friends, come to you courtesy of Hollinsummer 2006. We had a skit night where groups were assigned to different pop-culture references to parody. Wouldn't it just be fate that my group should be assigned to Harry Potter? This is, more or less, the skit we performed for the other girls. I was Fred or George Weasley (which one really isn't important). Please realize that we certainly didn't mean to offend anyone by our skit or this fanfic. It is, as I have said, a spoof; we merely meant to exaggerate and pervert certain aspects of each character to comment upon them as characters. We did not mean to slander, degrade, or even comment on any real people. I hope, then, with that warning in mind, that you will enjoy this bit of well-meaning humor._

_Yours forever, Tsona_

Chaos reigned in the drafty, dark unused classroom in the dungeons. Sitting side by side in a semicircle of desks that had awaited them and their fellows, Fred and George Weasley were occupying the time by causing a fleet of paper airplanes to bounce repeatedly off Draco Malfoy's head. Malfoy cowered, arms flung up to ward off the barrage. With his eyes jammed firmly shut, the Weasley twins and anyone else who cared to glance in his direction could see the hours of preparation he had put into his make-up: The midnight blue eyeshadow's effect was greatly heightened by the black eyeliner and and glittering purple mascara. Fred snickered into his cellular phone and whispered something. George, listening on the other end of his call, guffawed appreciatively and snapped a picture of Malfoy with his cell, which was equipped with a camera feature.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter, sitting across the circle from Malfoy, as far from him as he could get, was jiggling his foot, rapidly clenching and unclenching his hands, and quaking. His eyes darted from one dark corner to another, though no one knew just what, if anything, he was looking for. His long, quivering shadow, cast by one of the few torches in the classroom, fell onto Neville Longbottom, who seemed to be doing a strange, seated interpretive dance. He had his hands raised above his head and seemed to be imitating the gushing motion of a fountain. Between him and Malfoy, sat Professor Trelawney, her glazed eyes staring into nothing. Her many sparkling shawls clung to her haphazardly and she hiccuped at odd moments.

Hermione and Ron merely glared at one another from between Harry and the twins.

Suddenly, the door banged open with such force that it ricocheted off the stone wall and slammed shut just behind the hem of Professor Severus Snape's billowy, black robe. He looked in a tower of rage. His pale face was twisted and his dark eyes flashed around the room. The assembly grew immediately silent without being told; his glare had as much effect as the tip of whirled whip. The nervous silence seemed somehow louder than the carefree ruckus. Trelawney seemed to have snapped out of her trance and was now staring in a wholly different, moony way at the professor striding toward them all.

"I am only here," Snape hissed into the quiet as he paused at the opening of the horseshoe, "because Professor Dumbledore asked me to. I take no pleasure whatsoever in this little gathering." He seemed to think it necessary to clarify this.

He shot one more glower around the room to make sure his audience was still rapt. It was clear several members weren't: Neville was still performing his seated dance. Harry still twitched and fidgeted. Fred Weasley was reaching for the rectangular lump in his pocket.

"Now," he breathed. "You are here for a meeting of" -- his face puckered as though he had swallowed a lemon whole -- "AWA. Addicted Wizards Anonymous." Snape's eyes flew suddenly to Harry. "POTTER!" he shouted. "On your feet!"

Harry jumped up as though he'd been struck. He stood self-consciously rubbing his arms as though cold and tapping his foot. Snape floated up behind his chair and stood surveying him from there. All eyes followed the professor.

"Why are you here?" Snape asked him quietly.

"I -- er -- I'm -- er -- addicted to adrenaline."

"I blame Oliver for that one, I do," Fred said in a carrying stage whisper.

"WEASLEYS, PUT THOSE AWAY!"

Fred had managed to slip his cell phone out and George had answered the vibration against his thigh. The two of them now glared at the professor and snapped the phones shut, but never hung up.

"Only you would be stupid enough not to know when to come down off your broomstick, Potter," Malfoy spat with disgust.

"Yeah? Well, at least I know whether I'm a bloke or not!"

"I know perfectly well what sex I am, Potter."

"That will do, Mr. Malfoy." Behind Snape's back, Fred, obviously still upset about having his conversation interrupted, stuck his tongue out at the potion's master. "Potter, fifteen points will be taken from Gryffindor for that."

"_What_?"

"Snivellus," Fred offered, adopting a saintly tone, "you ought to know better than to provoke someone on an adrenaline rush."

"What did you call me, Weasley?" the professor fumed as he rounded on Fred.

"Oh, let's just say it's a name a friendly woodland creature let drop," the redhead shrugged. Then, he smirked broadly; he'd gotten his revenge.

Snape had now gone from ashen white to an ugly puce. "Sit down, Mr. Potter," he mumbled as he moved on to Ron.

"Well, Weasley, what's your story?"

"I --" Ron mumbled, barely parting his lips.

"Don't mumble."

"I --"

"Stand up!"

Ron hastened to obey.

"Now," Snape sneered, "again. What's your problem?"

Ron shot Hermione a quick glare, then ground out, "I'm_ supposedly_ addicted to toothpaste."

"_Toothpaste_? Honestly, Weasel King, what kind of idiot addiction is _that_?"

"If you didn't look like a girl, Malfoy, I'd --"

"Enough, boy. I happen to agree with Draco on this point."

"Doesn't he always?" George whispered into the once more unpocketed cell.

"It's her fault!" Ron broke down and jammed an accusing finger at Hermione. "She told me my breath smelled bad when we snogged."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Ickle Ronniekins? _Snogging_?" Fred barely managed to contain a snort of glee.

George broke out into song, not even bothering to keep his voice lowered. "_Ron and Hermione sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-_"

"SHUT UP AND PUT THOSE DISGUSTING MUGGLE DEVICES _AWAY_!"

Ron, red to the very roots of his flaming hair, lowered himself onto the edge of his seat and sank down into hiding behind the desktop. He leapt up, however, as though shocked, hitting his knee on the wood, at the Potion's master's harsh bark.

"Weasley! Did I tell you you could sit?"

"N-n-n-no."

Snape cast a disdainful glower over Ron's lanky, quivering form. "Now you may sit. I'm through with you."

Ron sank thankfully back into his chair as the potion's master moved on to Hermione.

"And you, Granger?"

Hermione stood up without being told and adopted a haughty air. "Ron says I'm addicted to coffee, but I'm not."

"Then what is that by your foot?" Ron muttered from his slouch.

Hermione glanced down and laughed in a weak way that told everyone she clearly didn't find the coincidence humorous in the least. "It looks like a take-out mug from the Madam Puddifoot's. How'd that get there, I wonder?"

"Sit down, Granger," Snape sighed. He glanced toward his next victims and flinched slightly. "Weasleys?" He chose to ask this from behind the cover of Hermione rather than stand behind them.

In unison, the twins leapt out of their seats, cell phones in hand, and announced with gleeful pride, "We're addicted to cell phones!"

"What can possibly be so addicting about those filthy Muggle things?" Malfoy asked scathingly.

The twins decided to act as though the question had not been rhetorical.

"Well," Fred began, "they're highly convenient."

"Much faster than owls," George agreed.

"Even faster than the Floo Network."

"And without the risk of being hit over the head with a waffle-iron if you get the wrong house."

"And you don't have to worry about the person being out."

"Because it doesn't need a fireplace."

"And you can leave messages if the person isn't picking up."

"And you can save all your conversations."

"If you're forgetful." Fred nodded solicitously to Neville, who ignored him and continued his seated dance.

"And they take pictures."

"See?" Fred aimed trained the lens on a highly affronted Malfoy, snapped the shot, then turned his phone around to show his audience.

"But they don't move," Ron complained. "What good is a picture that doesn't move?"

"They are still perfectly valid for blackmail, little bro."

"There will be no blackmailing of anyone in this room," Snape intervened quickly. "These are closed sessions. And now, if you're perfectly done, PUT THOSE THINGS _AWAY_!"

Fred and George shot him a dark glower before snapping the cells loudly shut and plopping into their desks.

Snape glided forward to stand before Neville, who shocking everyone, did not seem even to notice the professor, expect that perhaps his dance slowed a little in the potion's master's shadow.

"And just _what_ do you think you're doing, Longbottom?"

"Growing," Neville answered simply.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Growing?"

"Yes. And you're blocking my sun."

"Please, Professor," Hermione volunteered from across the room. Snape turned slowly to face her. "He was feeding his _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ some Miracle-gro and tried a bit. He hasn't been the same since."

"Miracle-gro?" Snape repeated faintly.

"It's a fertilizer, sir."

"I figured as much," Snape snapped at her. "Stop being such a know-it-all, Granger, and shut up." He turned back to Neville. "What kind of half-wit are you to, Longbottom, trying plant food?"

"I'm growing."

Snape shook his head in disbelief and moved on. He looked down at the misty-eyed person before him a minute before speaking, in more leveled tones than he had to the other AWAs. "Professor, I was under the impression this meeting was for students only. Did Dumbledore ask you to come?"

Professor Trelawney's wide-eyed gaze was transfixed on the potion's master. "Oh, I'm not here for Dumbledore, Severus," she purred. "I'm here for you."

Snape's sallow skin seemed to take on a greenish tinge. "Yes... Can I help you with something?"

Professor Trelawney rose slowly from her chair, her haphazardly draped shawls sliding off her body and onto the floor so that she stood before him in nothing but bangles and a green dress. She extended one stubby finger toward a petrified Snape and began to draw tiny circles upon his chest. "There's a lot you can help me with, Sevey-poo. I've been watching the stars," she continued. "Checking horoscopes. Tea leaves. Crystal balls. You and I are a perfect match, Sevey-poo. See," she reached for his clenched fist and pried open the long fingers and traced one of hers along a line of his palm. "There. You have a _very _appealing aura, Sevey."

"Professor Trelawney, _please_!" Snape cried, pulling backward, but Trelawney's hand closed about his and dragged him back.

"Call me Sybill," she cooed, leaning toward him with fluttering false lashes and puckered lips.

"Go on, Sevey-poo," George cried as Snape leaned as far back as possible from the love-struck clairvoyant. He had his cell phone out again and was aiming the small pinhole of the camera at the star-crossed pair. "Give her a big smooch."

"It's probably the only kiss you'll ever get," Fred added sagely.

"And the viewers of "Britain's Funniest" will love it!"

"Weasley, put -- it -- away!" Snape cried, tugging away from Trelawney with every word. With a great wrench, he broke free, and pushed the drunken sybil back into her seat. He brushed himself off, looking thoroughly disgusted. He threw a glance at Draco, who was giggling into his fist. He looked at him a minute before venturing to ask, "Malfoy, what are you wearing?"

Malfoy lowered his hand and calmed his laughter enough to ask, "Do you like it? It's all over the runways."

"Yeah," Ron muttered. "The janitors use them to clean the floor." The remark was greeted with a chorus of stifled guffaws that Snape quelled with a stare.

"What would you know about fashion, Weasel? You couldn't afford the thread for these fishnets even."

Ron glared at him, going red about the ears.

Snape hesitated a moment longer. "Malfoy? Can I talk to you a moment?"

"Of course, Professor." He leapt up and smoothed his tartan miniskirt before following Snape on glittering stilettos off to the side of the room.

"Malfoy, those clothes... they're not for young men," Snape tried tactfully.

"But... they're slimming, sir."

"Well, I don't want them to wear them anymore."

"You're just jealous!"

"I most certainly am not."

"So you don't think I'm pretty?"

Snape was being to blush beneath his sallow skin. George had removed his camera phone once more.

"You're, er... Oh, let's face it, Malfoy, you look ridiculous! Now, if I ever see you wearing those... _things_ again, I'm going to have to put you in detention for it!"

"I'm telling Father!"

"Stop being a child! Your father wouldn't approve, either."

A single tear leaked out of Malfoy's eye, drawing a long line of smudged mascara along his rouged cheek.

"Draco, I will burn these clothes if I must, starting with the skirt, if that's what it takes to keep you from wearing them. Now, come on, off with them!" He extended a sallow, claw-like hand for the fashionable tartan.

Through this exchange, Fred and George had been whispering to each other through their cells. Now Fred nodded and with an, "Okay," hung the cellphone up at last. George kept his open and trained the pinhole camera on Snape. Draco was just dropping the skirt reluctantly into the potion's master's grasp when Fred snatched it from him. He whipped the skirt over Snape's head and held his hands firmly behind his back.

"Quick, Malfoy, the shoes!"

Draco smirked and pulled the stilettos from his feet, handing them to Fred, who bound the potion's master's wrists together with the glittering straps. Then, he called to Trelawney. "He's all yours, Professor!"

The clairvoyant looked as though Christmas had come early and abandoned her shawls as she ran on spindly legs toward the bound professor, who was crying, "Weasley! Weasley, you'll never get away with this! And you, Malfoy, I expected --"

Professor Trelawney threw herself as an extra chain around him and thrust her bony cheek up against his covered one. "Oh, Sevey-poo, Sevey-poo, I _knew_ you'd warm up to me. You and I, we'll have a love story for the history books. We'll buy a little cottage on the Isle of Wight and raise ten children. Oh, you'll make such a cute daddy!"

"Weasley! Weasley, you can't _do_ this to me! Draco? Draco, please? Potter? Granger, you always were the clever one. Don't let them _do_ this! No!!!!"

Trelawney had him by the arm now and was dragging him backward out of the room, kicking and screaming, and still bound tightly. She continued to rant about their marriage. "We have to find someone to perform the ceremony. Do you want a big ceremony, Sevey? Or maybe Dumbledore could perform it now? He's head of this school, after all."

--The End--

Or is it?

"Severus? Severus? Come help me. Sevey Junior is crying. He wants his daddy. Severus?"

_A/N: There you are, my friends, it took me nearly a year to get around to finishing it and I hope it has been worth that time and effort. I must say, good times at college camp._

_Yours forever, Tsona_


End file.
